


Living Things

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: [Takes place during S1E7.] The Mandalorian navigates the journey back to Nevarro with his shipmates.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	Living Things

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 7 seemed to suggest a number of parallels between the Mandalorian and IG-11 that weren't quite resolved to my satisfaction. I wanted to pick through some of my thoughts.

When Kuiil gets out the Rocbarli pieces again, inviting IG-11 to sit with a solemn challenge, the Mandalorian rises silently and retreats to the cockpit. As he enters, the Child warbles quietly, so the Mandalorian sets him on his lap at the control panel. In many ways, the Child is undoubtedly the most difficult traveling companion the Mandalorian has ever had. And yet within the moments they spend together, it’s easier than being alone. 

Not that the others are difficult, mostly. Placid Kuiil, he’s traveled with before. And he lived alongside Cara on Sorgan for weeks, which was more than enough time to learn how to avoid friction.

No, the interloper is obvious.

The Child squeaks, and the Mandalorian lifts him a bit higher, keeping his little arms well away from the controls. The journey will be over soon. They need to move slowly through this sector, but by the end of the current cycle, they’ll be ready for the jump to hyperspace. And then...whatever awaits on Nevarro. 

As the Child watches the flashing lights race across the dashboard, his wide black eyes reflect the dazzling pinpricks.

The extent of his cognitive abilities remains a mystery. Three spoken languages and two signed ones have yielded no discernible response. Still, the Mandalorian has found himself censoring his own words, speaking obliquely of grisly topics in case the Child understands more than he’s capable of communicating. Perhaps it’s needless. Without words, there is no way to tell what he worries, dreams, or remembers. And there are no indications of the nightmares or timidity the Mandalorian expects of an ordinary child aware of the violence he’s been exposed to.

The Mandalorian avoids thinking about it, the memory of the Child strapped down on the laboratory table. Hands pinned down by cold metal, needles puncturing tissue, irradiated cells disintegrating. The thoughts are enough to make his own body ache; the visceral realities, too much for a kid to carry.

He folds his hand against his chest, willing the twist of guilt and panic to relax. Since he began living the Way, meditation has been one of the few nonviolent tools at his disposal. It calms and energizes him in the face of even the most challenging aspects of his creed. Fasting, so difficult at first, is no more impossible than skipping a bath, no matter how urgent it feels. He can find focus beyond any rage or fear.

The tangle of tension sighs and unwinds. Focus on the breath and heart; become in tune with the body and its needs, and yet outside of them. Paradoxically, one finds peace in those parts of living that must be endured.

At their meal, the Mandalorian repeats this to himself as the others clear the table of the game. The smell of the food is unappetizing enough that he quells the grumbling in his stomach with only a small effort. 

“It was fun,” Cara tells him, closing the box of pieces. “You should play next time.”

“I suspect our friend Mando is not fond of losing,” says Kuiil.

The Mandalorian snorts. Rocbarli is, at its heart, a game of mathematics. “I just don’t like playing against rigged odds.”

“You mean you like winning,” says Cara.

“By now you should know I don’t mind a fair fight. That’s not the situation I’m concerned about.”

“Everyone plays fairly,” says Kuiil. “If you decide to join us in the future, that assurance will stand.”

“I am an excellent gaming companion,” says IG-11. “I always take my turns promptly, and I never throw pieces across the room.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Kuiil,” says the Mandalorian.

The droid prepares and serves the rations. Its movements are still jerky, unmistakably mechanical. Its stuttering gait shakes the food tins as IG-11 makes its way around the table, and fills the Mandalorian with haunting dread. When the tray arrives bobbing at his seat, he says, “Nothing for me.”

“Of course not,” says IG-11. 

Cara grins openly. The Mandalorian wonders whether the personality upgrade was really necessary, or if Kuiil couldn’t have just ripped out what was left of the neural harness and left it a cold, quiet, honest machine.

One benefit of declining to eat with others is that there are no distractions from his concerns. The Child chews noisily on a bone larger than his own hand, an activity the Mandalorian monitors closely. The Child’s teeth are still dull, tiny knives, though that hasn’t kept him from crunching his way through all manner of cartilage and bone. And with a mouth that wide, choking doesn’t seem likely, but splinters are a separate hazard.

On the Child’s other side, IG-11 also monitors. Such focus is essential for a caretaker. It’s also essential for a hunter. Lacking insight as to the nature of its fixation, the Mandalorian has no choice but to watch IG-11, too.

“Where I grew up,” says Kuiil unexpectedly, “we began and ended each meal with clasped hands and prolonged seconds spent looking into each other’s eyes.”

“Well,” says the Mandalorian, “I don’t think that’s going to happen at this table.”

Cara slows chewing, eyebrows raised.

“Why not?” says Kuiil.

The Mandalorian nods at the droid. “Hard to maintain eye contact without any eyes.”

Cara’s expression twists into incredulity. But the Mandalorian nurses no hypocritical horror of faceless things, only a horror of soulless ones. IG-11’s _face_ is a metal plate with some red bulbs wired up to it. There is nothing identifiable behind the blinking lights; in fact, the Mandalorian knows, there is nothing at all. And so there could be anything. 

Kuiil makes a pass with his hand, the gesture that means he will hear no argument. “I have performed the ritual with blind men,” he says, “and those with a dozen eyes, and with IG-11, as well. The emotional resonance is more important than the organics.”

The Child bites down with a loud crunch.

“That is enough for you,” says IG-11.

For a heart-stopping second, the Mandalorian can only watch as the droid’s hands reach for the Child’s neck.

But then those spindly metal fingers slip inside the Child’s open jaws instead and fish out the bone, which has snapped in two. The broken edges are sharp. 

“Vicious little one,” says IG-11. “Careful.”

The Child dozes off after the large meal, and is snoring softly in his bassinet when the Mandalorian returns to the cockpit. This time Cara follows him up. 

“I’m not bothering you, am I? Were you about to eat?”

“You’re more than welcome.”

She sits heavily at the co-pilot’s station. “Thanks.”

For a while, she tells him a story about the only job she ever took that required undercover work. The horrors of Jaal-duk cooking feature prominently, so it’s obvious why the memory is on her mind. 

In conversation, like everything else, Cara has a blunt approach. The Mandalorian has found he appreciates its openness. And as she lounges in her chair, the colder, more calculating part of him counts her as an extra line of defense at the door, if necessary.

When her tale’s concluded, Cara sits up straighter and says, “I have another question about the helmet.”

No one ever runs out of questions. “Go ahead.” 

With uncharacteristic hesitation, Cara asks, “Is celibacy part of your creed?”

The Mandalorian glances at the control panel again without needing to. “It isn’t.”

“Not flirting, just asking.”

“I know.” 

Cara just watches him. She has an infuriating way of being silently pushy. The Mandalorian sighs, mostly internally.

“Sex—”

He peeks at the Child. Still asleep.

“It can be surprisingly easy to come by,” he says, keeping his voice low anyway. “People are curious about the experience.”

“But you still don’t remove it.”

“That’s what makes them curious.”

Cara thinks about that for a few moments. “Seems like there are some limits on what you can do.”

“The Way doesn’t offer much guidance on that front,” the Mandalorian admits.

She laughs, dragging one foot across the floor as she swivels her chair back and forth. “Yeah, but you’re like me—not a romantic. You don’t need to kiss someone to screw them.”

The Mandalorian shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be a _screw_ ,” he says, more delicately than she did. “Some people seek connection.”

“Can that really happen if they can’t see your face?”

The skepticism is heavy in her voice. The Mandalorian shifts, working to quiet a shiver of unease. He knows Cara’s assumption is false. After all, he always felt at home among the others of his creed.

At the moment, however, what passes through his mind is how lonely he found himself after certain encounters. For a long second, he is caught between two experiences, incapable of seeing which is true.

But before he decides, there’s a gurgle and a gasp from the far end of the cockpit that draws both of their attention. The Child stirs, sits up, and belches. Then he jerks over onto his other side, smacking his lips wetly as he settles again.

Cara’s look of disgust is so unguarded that the Mandalorian almost laughs. He turns back to the dashboard, allowing the smile to lift his lips where no one will be able to see it, and lets silence be answer enough.


End file.
